


Parallel Lives: Six Glimpses

by aphreal



Series: Parallel Lives [1]
Category: Dragon Age, Mass Effect
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-13
Updated: 2013-02-13
Packaged: 2017-11-29 04:28:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/682767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphreal/pseuds/aphreal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Parallel Lives is a fusion AU translating Dragon Age characters into a Mass Effect Setting. It follows six Wardens, one from each origin, along with various Origins and Awakenings companions. </p><p>Six Glimpses introduces each of the Wardens, showing their place in the galaxy and giving hints of how the impending galactic conflict is going to impact their lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Alliance Officer

**Author's Note:**

> This was my entry for Wave One of the first ever Dragon Age Big Bang. It's the first time I've been involved in a fandom challenge like this, and it has been an incredible experience. Huge thanks to the mods for putting this together.  
> I was fortunate enough to receive amazing art from two very talented individuals. Reg and Chen, you guys really made my words come alive, and I am a huge fan of both of your work.  
> Reg's gorgeous typesetting of the opening paragraphs to each chapter can be found at http://imgur.com/a/SG79T#0  
> Chen's wonderful illustrations, again one for each chapter, can be seen at http://chenria.tumblr.com/post/36064819645/here-are-the-pictures-i-did-for-one-of-the-dabb 
> 
> Also, as always, major thanks and credit to Cherie (signcherie) for beta skills and helping me wrangle Anders into line.

Lieutenant Alexia Cousland gritted her teeth as she swept her assault rifle across the group of mercenaries overrunning the squad. That was _not_ how this mission was supposed to go. 

Rolling, she ducked behind cover and continued picking off the mercs as she tried to get a clear grasp on the situation. The Nairobi was her first posting out of the Academy, and she assumed the captain had included her in this shore party to assess her in a low-risk situation. It had been a fairly routine patrol at first. Then they’d stumbled into an ambush and all hell had broken loose. Right now, she was too busy taking down targets to try and figure out what had gone wrong. 

Cousland pulled back to switch out her clip, and when she peeked out of cover again, the firefight had died down a little. She had a clear view of the major, distinctive in his sleek, flashy armor. Head turning, he surveyed the situation, appearing to have it well in hand. Cousland heard a click across her commset and prepared to respond to orders, anticipating likely scenarios for a tactical retreat. 

Then the door behind the major hissed open and the krogan shock troops flooded through. She couldn’t see if it was biotics or a shotgun blast that slammed into the major’s back first, but his mangled body was on the floor in short order, blood spattered across that shiny armor. Cursing, Cousland took aim and began firing at the new wave of mercs, hoping to blunt their charge. 

The commander clearly had the same idea, stepping out from cover and taking aim. The krogan leader vanished from her sight in a blinding flash of blue-white sparks as his shields overloaded, and a couple of the mercs behind him fell to the ground with half of their faces missing. But the krogan were still coming in, and the commander’s position was too close for effective use of his sniper rifle. Cousland continued to fire into his assailants, but there were too many of them and they were too well armored. She watched in horror as the commander was overrun. 

A sudden explosion tore through the room, deafening in its intensity. Most of the krogan mercs were flung backwards by the force of the blast, and few of them got up afterwards. Echoes ringing in her ears, Cousland picked off the ones that did. She whispered a blessing for the commander. The wiry old campaigner must have rigged something to blow, taking out most of the mercs. But there was no way he’d made it through a blast that flattened a dozen krogan. So Cousland was now the ranking officer in charge of this disaster.   
Once her hearing returned to normal, the sounds of crackling flames and scattered gunfire creeping back in to her awareness, Cousland thumbed on her commset. “Squad, report! Status?”

The seconds ticked by, and there was no answer. The armored mercs were starting to regroup after the blast, too, and as she continued firing, Cousland began to panic. There was no way she was getting out of this alone. “Positions?” she barked, hoping desperately for a reply.   
Just as she had decided there wasn’t going to be one, a single voice came back across the channel. “Cowering?” 

Cousland tried to get a grip on the relief that flooded her at the scrap of human contact. “Sitrep?”

“Cowering, bleeding, and trying not to get shot again.” There was a slightly disconnected edge to the voice, and she couldn’t place which of the privates it belonged to. She tried to get more information from him about his location, but there were no specifics forthcoming. 

Eventually, Cousland caught sight of what was apparently her sole surviving ally, hunched over behind some crates. It was completely the opposite direction from the exit, but there was no way she was leaving him behind. Pulling out her shotgun, she stood from cover, drawing attention and blasting back the vorcha that charged her on sight. 

Her shields held long enough for her to run to the other marine’s position, putting down all of the remaining vorcha on the way. Ducking into his cover, she smiled grimly, hoping she’d bought them a little breathing space. With the krogan and vorcha out of it, the rest of the mercs should be more wary about approaching a heavily armed position, despite their superiority of numbers. 

She spared a quick glance down at her squadmate, identifying him and becoming rapidly alarmed at the amount of blood seeping out of his armor. “Dammit, Theirin, why didn’t you tell me you were that badly injured?” 

Given his condition, she didn’t expect a response, so she wasn’t surprised when he remained silent while she dug for medi-gel. 

Apparently he’d been considering the question, though, because after a few moments he responded groggily. “Poor judgment due to blood loss?” 

Cousland smirked in spite of the situation, a tiny huff of a laugh escaping. Before she could frame a suitable reply, there was a sound of footfalls behind her. 

She whirled, coming face to face with a batarian who was either more brave or less intelligent than his allies. Cousland’s hand twitched, and she realized that she had set down her gun to pull out the medi-gel. There was no way she could reach it before the batarian got a shot off. 

The batarian seemed to come to the same conclusion, and a wicked grin twisted across its features as it leveled its weapon on her. Then suddenly a hole blossomed where most of its face had been, and it collapsed bonelessly to the ground. 

Cousland turned back to see her squadmate holding a pistol, all he’d been able to manage one-handed. His arm wasn’t completely steady as he lowered it, and his breathing sounded more strained than it had before. 

“Nice shot,” she said, revising their odds of survival up a tick. If he could shoot that well while seriously injured, they might have a real chance of getting out of here once he was back on his feet. 

Before anything else could go wrong, she quickly applied the medi-gel to his lower torso, wincing as he hissed with the pain of her less-than-gentle treatment. “It won’t be perfect, but this should hold you together long enough to get back to the Nairobi. Your armor and body are both going to be weak, though. Don’t do anything unnecessarily stupid and try not to get shot again.” 

Cousland stopped, realizing she was rambling out of nerves. Her companion didn’t seem to mind, focused mostly on the fading pain as his injuries mended. His shallow breathing deepened and then sped up as adrenalin joined the endorphins flooding his system. She waited until his eyes cleared and his attention focused externally instead of on the changes taking place in his body. “Ready?” she asked. 

He nodded affirmatively, picking up his assault rifle and stowing the hand cannon. 

“Let’s go then. Stick close. Stay focused. And do whatever I tell you.” 

“Aye, aye, ma’am.” He sounded amused. “Have you noticed you’re giving rather a lot of orders?”

“I’m your commanding officer at the moment. The commander and major are both down. Hell, I think the entire rest of the squad is down. We’re it, and I’ll be damned if we join them.” 

Cousland checked her clips in preparation for storming out of their cover. Her companion was oddly silent, and she realized belatedly that she’d been an idiot. She was new to the Nairobi, but he wasn’t. Those marines she’d barely known were his teammates, his friends – hadn’t the major been his cousin or something? – and it was heartless of her to treat their deaths so casually. 

Wincing, not quite able to meet his eyes, she tried to mend her thoughtless words. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have sprung it on you like that. They were good marines, and they deserved better. We’ll grieve for them when we get back to the ship. But first we need to make sure we get out of this so no one’s grieving us.” 

“Of course, ma’am.” He sounded subdued, and she almost didn’t hear what followed. “Although I doubt anyone would much care about losing a _second_ Theirin.” 

Cousland couldn’t let that pass. Defeatism was not an option if they wanted to survive this. “Belay that, marine,” she snapped, staring him down. “If nothing else, I would care. This is my first command, and while it sure as hell isn’t what I pictured or wanted, there is no way I am coming out of it without my squad. Since you’re it at the moment, I will be doing every damn thing I can to make sure you get back to the shuttle safely. You are not allowed to die on me, Theirin. That is an order. Understood?” 

“Understood, ma’am.” His head was up now, shoulders set. Cousland nodded briskly, satisfied. She’d worry about making sense of that look on his face later, once they were back on the ship.

Cousland poked her head out, ducking back quickly just before a crater appeared in the wall behind her. “Looks like they took advantage of the time to get snipers in place,” she said briskly. “Once we get out there, we keep moving. Never hold still long enough for them to get a fix.” She reached for a grenade. “I’m going to cause some confusion out there. Then we use the distraction to get as far out of here as possible. Cover my six.” 

“With you, ma’am.” 

He nodded, she armed and threw the grenade, and they ran. 

The next few minutes were utter chaos. Slugs flashing off of shields or burying themselves in walls. Mercs screaming and bleeding. Running, ducking, dodging. Cousland almost couldn’t believe it when the shuttle hatch sealed behind them. She slid behind the controls and fired up the engines. “Let’s get the hell off this God-forsaken rock.” 

“No arguments from me.” He winced as he fastened on the restraint harness, evidence the medi-gel hadn’t been able to fix all of the damage to his abdomen. He was going straight to the doctor when they got onto the Nairobi, regardless of what he or anyone else said.   
As they broke atmo without pursuit, Alexia finally relaxed, pulling off her helmet and shaking out her sweat-matted hair. Something had gone very wrong back there, and she wasn’t entirely convinced it was an accident. None of the intel they’d been given had suggested anywhere near that level of resistance. Either someone had gotten very sloppy, or that was a set-up. There were people in various diplomatic and intelligence offices who would take her calls out of respect for her father’s memory. Once she was debriefed, it was time to start pulling some of those strings and finding out exactly who knew what about Ostagar. 

 

Over two hours later, Alexia was in her shipboard quarters, toweling dry her hair. After a painfully thorough debriefing with Captain Dryden and the ship’s remaining senior officers, she’d felt the need for a shower to wash away some of the physical and emotional debris from the mission. Showers on a ship were short by necessity, but at least they were hot. Especially on a day like this, Alexia would gladly take whatever little comforts were available. 

She pulled on her shipboard uniform and slicked her damp hair back into a tight knot. Feeling somewhat more civilized and together, she headed to the medical bay to check on the injured marine she’d brought back. 

As soon as they had gotten back to the Nairobi, she’d ordered Theirin to report to sickbay, wanting someone with proper medical training to follow up on her field first aid. Alexia wasn’t sure she’d had the authority to give that order, but the captain hadn’t chosen to countermand it. Since Theirin had logged into the medbay under Alexia’s direction, it was her responsibility to follow up on his progress. Truthfully, she was relieved to have that excuse to check in. After running through a blow-by-blow of the ambush with the senior officers, she needed a tangible reminder that she’d managed to salvage something from the disaster.

As Alexia entered the medbay, the Nairobi’s doctor, a man she’d barely met in her short time on the ship, looked up from his terminal. “Lieutenant,” he greeted her with a crisp nod. “You’ll be here to check up on my work, then?”

“Not at all, sir. I’m sure you know your job far better than I do.” Alexia squared her shoulders and dropped into a formal stance out of habit, deferring to the doctor’s seniority. “All the same, I would feel better knowing how well my field patching held up.” 

The doctor’s brisk demeanor thawed somewhat, and he favored her with a hint of a smile. “You did a nice job, given the circumstances. I had to pump several units of blood into him and mend some internal damage, but I’ve seen a lot worse. Especially from a shot like that. He’ll have a scar to show off, but you saved his life, lieutenant.” 

Alexia sighed with relief, feeling her shoulders sag as she released tension she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Thank you. I’ll let you get back to work now, sir. Tell Theirin I asked after him.” 

“Tell him yourself.” The doctor gestured toward the sickbay door as he turned back to his terminal. “He’s awake and would welcome the company.” 

Alexia hesitated, unsure if she should intrude when she only really knew the man from patching him up and bullying him back onto his feet afterwards. 

The doctor huffed impatiently. “Go on, lieutenant. Let him talk your ear off for a while instead of mine.” 

Alexia nodded and walked towards the indicated door, mentally chastising herself. Theirin had been through a traumatic experience, and he was trying to process it while confined in a sterile, impersonal environment with extremely limited human contact. The doctor’s comment suggested that he needed someone to talk to, and even if she didn’t know him particularly well, it ought to be her responsibility – as an officer, a fellow marine, and simply a decent person – to give him a sympathetic ear. 

When the sickbay door hissed open, Alexia was relieved to see Theirin dressed in casual uniform and sitting upright. He looked a little pale from the blood loss, but otherwise there was little indication of what he’d been through. Except for the shadows in his eyes. His face lit up with a smile as she entered, and Alexia knew she’d made the right choice. He didn’t need to be alone right now. 

She waved away his attempt at a salute. “This is a purely social visit. I came to see how you’re doing.” 

“Surprisingly well, given the large hole someone opened in my side. So, you know, thank you for that. For the me doing well, I mean. Not the large hole, obviously. I’m pretty sure you didn’t shoot me. I remember that being someone much uglier and scalier and with more eyes.” He trailed off awkwardly. 

Alexia stared at him, trying to work her way through that to find an appropriate response. 

Before she got to one, he spoke again, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Anyway, what you probably actually want to know… I would be cleared for duty except I’m still low on blood.” 

“Not surprising given how much of it you were sitting in when I found you.” Alexia tried to relax more visibly, leaning her weight back against the adjacent cot, hoping to put him at ease. “But I’m not here about your medical condition; the doctor filled me in on that – somewhat more succinctly, I might add.” She flashed him a quick smile to take the sting from her words before pressing her point. “I’m asking about what he can’t tell me: After everything that happened down there, how are you doing, Theirin?” 

“All things considered, lieutenant, I think you can call me Alistair.” 

Alexia raised an eyebrow at him. “While you address me by rank?” 

“Yes, ma’am!” His crisp military response was too exaggerated and immediate to be sincere, and Alexia couldn’t help but be amused. “I wouldn’t dream of referring to a superior officer by her first name. I mean, I might literally dream about it, but only after being discharged from the sickbay so I can get access to your records and find out what your first name actually is, so I don’t have to make something up… And that got really weird. Um, can we pretend that I’m on some sort of pain meds and not usually this much of an idiot?” 

Alexia gave up on holding in her laughter, hoping that it came across as friendly rather than mocking. “I’ll save you the trouble of looking it up,” she offered. “My name’s Alexia.” 

“Is that for information purposes, or can I…?”

She laughed again. “You’re welcome to use it in informal settings. Or dreams, I suppose, when relevant.”

He looked at her oddly for a moment, as if absorbing that, and she wondered if he really was slightly addled by a combination of pain medication, shock, and fatigue. Which brought her back to the purpose of the conversation. “You still haven’t answered my original question.” 

A slightly guilty look flickered over his face, followed rapidly by resignation. “And you’re going to keep bringing it up until I do.” 

“I’m known for my persistence.” Alexia took a deep breath, forcing herself to drop the light, playful tone. She let her guard down and looked him squarely in the eyes. “And maybe I need to talk about what happened as much as you do.” 

Alistair flinched away from her sincerity, his humor replaced by bitterness. “What’s there to say? A lot of people are dead, and I’m trying to figure out why I’m sitting here with nothing worse than a new scar. Ostagar was supposed to be simple, and it all went to hell, and I have no idea why I’m still breathing.” 

“Leaving you to bleed out wouldn’t have helped anyone.” Alexia tried to phrase it as a neutral observation, but she had too many of her own emotions tied up in the day’s events to keep her distance. 

“Why me? Most of the corpses we left down there were better marines, better men. How did I deserve to walk away?” 

“It’s not about what we deserve. It never is. No one deserves to die like that. No one.” She leaned forward, gripping Alistair’s forearm to hold his attention. “And it isn’t always about skill or training or any of that, as much as they try to teach us in basic. Sometimes it’s just luck and timing. There isn’t a reason or meaning in it, but you have to try and make one after the fact. You have to make your survival count for something. Make it worth their deaths.” 

Alistair’s eyes were wide, fixed on her face, and Alexia knew she was ranting like a madwoman. But she couldn’t stop, couldn’t bring herself back under control. Not after she’d been telling herself these same things every day since she started at the Academy to find meaning in her family’s deaths. If she couldn’t get him to believe she meant it, how could she convince herself? 

Stubborn anger twisted Alistair’s features. “Worth it? How? What’s a life worth? All those lives? How can I make that up?” 

“Maybe we can’t. Maybe there’s no way you and I can ever live up to the potential that was lost down there. All we can do is spend every day of the rest of our lives trying.” She realized that she was still gripping his arm, probably tightly enough to be uncomfortable. 

Awkwardly, Alexia let go and tried to even out her ragged breathing, slow her pulse. “Deal?” She held out her hand for him to shake, pleased she was able to keep it steady. 

Alistair looked slightly dazed by her outburst, but he took her hand. “Deal.” 

“Good.” His hand was callused and warm. She tightened her grip slightly, light pressure for emphasis. “For now, your part of it is resting until you’re recovered enough for the doctor to discharge you. I should go so you can get started with that.” 

As she started to pull away, he held on to her hand, face turned up and eyes seeking hers. “Thank you. No matter how ungrateful I sound, I’m not blaming you. I… appreciate everything you’ve done for me, ma’am.” She looked at him expectantly, and he corrected himself. “Lexia.” 

She smiled, surprised by how welcome it was to hear someone use her name. Gently, she slipped her fingers free and moved towards the door. “We’ll talk later, Alistair.”


	2. The Turian Outcast

Althgar Aeducan stood stiffly at attention through the entirety of the memorial service. It was a solemn ceremony full of honor and tributes for the turians lost in the Battle of the Citadel. His father and eldest brother had been among the fallen, so Althgar was honor-bound to attend in a place of prominence. He listened with a set, stony face to speeches full of flowing language about valiant sacrifice, upholding the finest traditions of the turian fleet, and great warriors whose legacy would be remembered. 

Althgar wanted to scream. 

Today should be a rallying cry, not a congratulation. The Citadel had been saved and Sovereign was dead. But the rest of his kind was still out there, and they were coming. 

The empty platitudes fill Althgar with a mixture of grief and rage. While he would never dishonor the memory of his loved ones by regretting the sacrifices they had chosen to make, he was damned if he would let the government do so by denying the magnitude of the threat. 

General Endrin and Lieutenant Commander Trian had died stopping a _Reaper_. 

Althgar had been there. His position on the deck of a cruiser in the turian fleet had given him a clear view of the battle. After years of facing the geth on the far edges of the galaxy, he couldn’t accept the Council’s explanation that Sovereign had been a new type of geth flagship. The synthetic race had never shown evidence of technology even half that sophisticated. The idea that they had made such incredible advances with amazing speed and complete secrecy was ludicrous. 

And yet the entire turian hierarchy clung steadfastly to that fiction. Althgar assumed their denial was motivated by fear, coupled with a refusal to accept that one of their own – a celebrated Spectre – could ally himself with something so monstrous. Regardless of the reasons, Althgar was unable to contain his contempt at their blatant cowardice and deliberate ignorance. He couldn’t remain silent in the face of idiocy even if speaking would cost him his career, which he suspected it was going to. 

His commanding officer had warned, cajoled, and finally ordered him to abandon this unwise crusade, not wanting to lose a promising young officer he was grooming as protégé. But Althgar had never learned how to follow bad orders for the sake of political expediency. Harsh words had been exchanged before he left to attend this ceremony, and he wouldn’t be surprised if there was no longer a posting for him when he returned. It didn’t matter. This was bigger than one soldier’s career, and he couldn’t let it rest, no matter the personal consequences of his actions. 

The cost of inaction would be higher, and he wouldn’t be bearing it alone. The Council’s blatant denial only meant that more lives would be lost when no one was prepared for the next offensive. It was unconscionable, and it took every ounce of Althgar’s will to remain silent through the proceedings. He seethed every time someone spoke of success, of having ended the geth menace. The threat had not been the geth, and it was _not_ over. 

When the memorial ended, Althgar walked away briskly, seeking somewhere to clear his head and regain control of his emotions. He avoided eye contact, hoping to discourage conversation that could only go badly. As much as he wanted to be heard, this was not the time or place. A shouting match, however satisfying and necessary, would be disrespectful to those being honored, and he refused to bring disgrace to his father’s memory. Given his current mental state, Althgar was fairly certain the only way he could prevent that was keep to himself. Anyone who noticed his coldness would likely write it off to grief, an understandable and acceptable response under the circumstances. 

Althgar heard familiar footsteps deliberately approaching behind him and came to the grim realization that conversation had become unavoidable. 

“Brother.” 

“Bhelen.” Althgar didn’t turn. He had hoped to avoid his surviving brother today because he knew any conversation would be unpleasant, but he should have known that Bhelen would never pass up the chance to confront him. 

“Lovely ceremony.” Bhelen’s voice was calm, smooth. 

If their past history was any indication, Althgar suspected the bland remark was deliberately intended to nettle him. Althgar clenched his jaw and took a deep, calming breath, steeling himself not to respond to the bait. 

Bhelen continued as if he hadn’t expected a response. “A fitting tribute to honor the sacrifice of the fallen.” 

Althar’s resolve snapped. Despite every instinct screaming that it was a mistake, he whirled on his brother, fists clenched. “That farce was a disgrace! It dishonored the memory of every turian who fought by ignoring the magnitude of the real threat.” With effort, he kept his arms locked at his sides; the satisfaction of decking Bhelen wouldn’t be worth the court martial proceedings for striking a superior officer.

“Real threat?” Bhelen spread his hands theatrically. “Sovereign is destroyed. The Citadel and Council are saved. The remaining geth are weakened and leaderless. The threat is over.” 

“The Reapers are still out there.” 

His brother laughed in his face. “The Reapers are a myth! A fable Saren used to bolster his authority among the synthetics. It’s a testament to the gullibility of humans that Shepard was foolish enough to believe it. What excuse do _you_ have, little brother?” Bhelen’s smile was full of condescending sympathy, right on the edge of pity. 

It was an expression that always made Althgar’s fist itch with the desire to smash into his brother’s jaw. Somehow he’d always managed to resist doing so, but he suspected there was a day coming when he would give in. Not today, though. 

“I’ve seen geth technology. Sovereign was something else entirely. There’s no way a VI built that thing.” 

“The Council’s best experts have examined the wreckage, and they say otherwise. Do you really think you’re so much smarter than they are?” 

Althgar shook his head. He’d had this conversation – or one like it – so many times since the Citadel was attacked. With his brother, with his commanding officer, with anyone who had the slightest hope of reversing the turian position, of breaking the fleet free from blindly following the Council’s lead. None of them had listened. 

“This is a waste of time, brother.” With thoughts of Triam so fresh in his mind, the word grated. Bhelen was not what a brother should be. “What did you really want?” 

“To warn you!” Bhelen stepped closer, his voice lowered to an urgent hiss. “Think of what you’re doing to your career. Would you really throw it all away, soil the family name – father and Triam’s name – over this obsession?” 

The pieces clicked and Althgar stepped back in disgust. “Soil _your_ name, you mean. Are rumors of your little brother going rogue hurting your climb up the ladder?” He shook his head in disgust. “Bhelen, I’m not like you. I won’t back down from the truth for the sake of my career. And especially not for the sake of yours.” 

Bhelen sighed heavily, and there was a hint of genuine regret in his eyes. “I had hoped to talk some sense into you so it wouldn’t come to this.” He pulled up his omnitool. “Lieutenant Aeducan, you will not be returning to your posting on the Apparitus. As of today, you are on indefinite bereavement leave. Your lapses in judgment make it clear that you need time to regain perspective following your recent losses.” 

Althgar smiled bitterly, pulling out his datapad and confirming receipt of the new orders. “And it’s less damaging to have your brother unhinged by grief than just plain crazy. Or worse, in open rebellion.” 

“This isn’t personal, little brother. No one wants to punish you.” Bhelen placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “As soon as you’ve come to your senses, your captain has made it clear that he will be happy to have you back on board. Just don’t wait too long.” 

Althgar shrugged off the touch, rejecting Bhelen’s false sympathy. “You forget one thing, _brother_.” He spat the epithet. “If I’m not an active soldier, I don’t have to take orders from you.” Althgar turned and began walking away. “In fact, I don’t have to listen to you at all. Let me know when _you’ve_ come to your senses, and we can talk. Until then, goodbye, Bhelen.” 

As he returned to the docks to seek non-military transportation, Althgar spoke softly, not knowing or caring if his brother would hear. “Father would be very proud of one of us. Perhaps it’s just as well that we’ll never know which one.” 

 

Six months later, Althgar still hadn’t relented, and he hadn’t spoken to anyone in his command structure during that time. So far as he knew, he was still officially on leave, but it was highly improbable that anyone was holding a position for his return. 

That bothered him far less than his near-total failure to convert anyone to his cause during that time. Out of desperation, he had come to a place he never would have expected to be asking for help: Grissom Academy, an Alliance-run school for human prodigies. For all he knew, he was the first turian to set foot on the station. 

While most tactical calculations involving Grissom Academy – and especially the biotic-focused Ascension Program housed there – were centered on the students, Althgar had little interest in any of them. They were children, full of raw talent and potential, but future potential was irrelevant. The problem was mounting _now_ ; there wasn’t time for them to grow into their talents. He was hoping to recruit someone with far more extensive experience. 

“Matriarch, I appreciate you agreeing to meet with me.” He nodded his head respectfully at the asari, wondering for a moment if his research on her had been wrong. Dressed in the standard faculty uniform of the Academy and sitting behind a desk in a small, nondescript office, her appearance hardly matched his idea of a Spectre. 

Her initial words didn’t do much to change that impression. “It’s my pleasure. I rarely get visitors, so I admit I was curious.” She smiled, looking wise and motherly and not in the least bit dangerous. “And please, the only title I’m accustomed to at this stage of my life is ’professor’, from my pupils. Since you aren’t one of them, you’re welcome to call me Wynne.” 

“Thank you, ma’am. My name is Althgar Aeducan.” He deliberately omitted any mention of rank since he had no idea if he still officially held one. “You’re familiar with the events surrounding the Battle of the Citadel?”

“Grissom Academy is connected to the Galactic News Net.” Her tolerant smile made him feel like one of her teen-aged pupils, asking the simplistic questions of youth. Of course, from her centuries-long perspective, there was probably little difference. 

Still, he needed to establish credibility in her eyes if he was going to have any hope of enlisting her aid. “I was a part of the turian fleet that flew that day, and the official reports got a lot of details wrong.” 

“They always do.” Wynne chuckled, a warm sound. Althgar could hear decades of experience in her voice, calm acknowledgment of official incompetence and deliberate political falsehoods that she had grown to accept as part of life. 

For him, though, the injustices still rankled. “This time it’s bigger. They’re ignoring a threat to the entire galaxy.” He laid out all of the information he had about Sovereign and the Reapers, trying his best to present it impartially, to avoid sounding like a raving conspiracy theorist. Wynne’s eyes narrowed as he spoke, and he could only hope that meant she was considering his words and taking his message seriously. 

“The Reapers are real, ma’am. Despite what the Council says. We have no time to waste hoping otherwise. It’s time to stop pretending the threat will go away if we issue enough statements about advanced geth and rogue turians.” Althgar leaned forward towards the asari matriarch, his hands pressed flat on her desk. “Someone has to start speaking the truth. They’ll listen if it’s you.” 

He knew as soon as he finished that he had failed. 

“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid you’ve come here for nothing.” Her smile was kind and her voice gentle, patient like a grandparent speaking to a favorite grandson about things he couldn’t possibly understand. 

Althgar struggled against giving in to his disappointment and pushed harder. This had to work; he didn’t have another plan. “I’m not crazy. You have to believe me.” 

“Perhaps I do; perhaps I don’t.” Wynne shook her head slowly, smile widening without a trace of amusement or pleasure. “It doesn’t matter whether or not I accept your story. What matters is that I am no longer the Spectre whose help you seek. That part of my life is over. My place is here now, with my students. A matriarch does not return to being a commando.” 

“Listen to yourself!” Althgar surged to his feet, chair skidding backwards, leaning heavily on his hands still planted on her desk. “That’s your excuse? You’ll let the galaxy be over-run because you’ve chosen to retire? This is important!” 

Wynne didn’t flinch at his outburst, continuing to lean calmly back in her chair. “So is what I’m doing now.” Her eyes flared blue for a moment, a reminder of the formidable biotic power at her disposal. Her expression shifted from tolerance to disapproval. There was a harder edge to her voice when she continued. “Do you have any idea of the potential inherent in human biotics? Do you know the first thing about the history of this program or its predecessor?” 

Althgar faltered, confused by this apparent change of subject. 

She shook her head sadly. “I thought not.” Crossing her arms, she continued. “Before Ascension, human children with biotic talents were trained through a program known as BAaT: Biotic Acclimation and Temperance.” She pursed her lips. “A ridiculous name. And a ridiculous program. Children were isolated and brutalized, forced to develop their abilities under conditions of extreme stress. 

“Oh, it worked. No one could deny that. Those that withstood the training became powerful tools, but they were damaged by the process, often irrevocably. I had nothing to do with that travesty. So far as I am aware, not a single asari had a hand in it. And I pray I never learn otherwise. But that does not entirely free us from blame. Inaction makes us complicit.” 

“Like the Council,” Althgar interjected, seizing on a parallel. “Their willful blindness strengthens the Reapers by crippling our ability to fight back when they come.” 

Wynne appeared unmoved. “I see a path where I may do some good at Grissom Academy, unlike with the Council and the Reapers. I would be one Spectre among many, and not one with high status or connections. Besides, a rogue Spectre defying the Council is unlikely to be well received on the heels of Saren’s betrayal. 

“As a professor at Ascension, however, I am one of the few sets of hands sculpting the future of humanity’s biotic program. I have the power to ensure that the abuses of BAaT will never recur.” She fixed him with a level, placid stare. “You want my aid, but these children need my guidance. There is no choice to be made.” 

Althgar tightened his hands, feeling the tips of his fingers pressing hard against her desk. He wanted to scream, to find more words, more passion, something that would break through to her. But it was clear from the composed, serene expression on her face that he would be wasting his time. 

Instead, he opted to gather the remains of his dignity and accept his defeat. She was wrong, but he didn’t know of any other way to show her. “I am sorry you feel that way. Again, I appreciate your time, matriarch.” 

Without waiting for a dismissal or any parting pleasantries that would have felt unbearably false, he strode from her office and navigated the corridors back to the docking bay. Althgar was out of ideas. The retired Spectre had been his last and best hope, and he wasn’t sure where he could turn next. But with the memory of Sovereign burned into his mind and the threat of the Reapers hanging over every step he took, one thing was certain. 

He couldn’t give up.


	3. The Messianic Exile

Gwen’veve Tabris vas Shipless sighted through her scope and carefully aligned the crosshairs before taking the shot. She grinned fiercely as the opposing merc’s shoulder exploded under the impact. 

This was _exactly_ what she’d signed up for. 

She was only on her first job, but Gwen already knew that she’d made the right choice when she decided to set out from her clan to become a merc. Someone was paying her good money to shoot people who deserved it. What more could she have hoped for? 

Gwen was also pleased with her decision to join a small, freelance group rather than one of the big companies. For one thing, judging by the flashing on their armor, the group she was currently engaged in taking out was a splinter faction of the Blue Suns, and Gwen was much happier being on this side of the ambush. In the less immediate picture, she liked being part of a flexible team of specialists assembled for specific tasks that the more entrenched groups wouldn’t touch – often because the objectives ran counter to their corrupt business operations. At the moment, Gwen was part of a team tasked with retrieving sensitive data that was being used to blackmail a client. She had no idea about the identity or morals of the client, but Gwen figured she was pretty justified in assuming the blackmailer was someone whose downfall wouldn’t cost her any sleep. 

Lining up her sights on another target, Gwen took out a burly human merc who was hammering shotgun blasts into one of her squadmates’ kinetic barrier. Her shot took most of the pressure off his position, letting him spring the remaining few yards to a data terminal. He bent over to start hacking, and Gwen turned her gaze back to the surrounding battle. Priority number one was providing the tech with cover while he finished the job. 

Nothing seemed to happen for a few seconds, and then light sparked from the tech’s barrier. He ducked into cover, temporarily abandoning the console, and Gwen began swearing under her breath. The fire pinning him down was coming from the opposite direction, and she couldn’t get a clean line of sight on the shooter from her position. She scanned the area for an alternative, knowing that she wouldn’t find one she was happy with. The moment she’d entered the room, Gwen had identified this as the only viable sniper perch and moved immediately to occupy it. Nowhere else was going to give her the combination of cover and visibility she needed. 

Another flash of light went up from the tech’s kinetic barriers, and Gwen swore again. Her having the perfect position wouldn’t do a damned bit of good if she let the guy carrying out their primary objective die down there. Rising into a crouch, she mapped out a path of short sprints that would get her to a position with a better line of sight. It looked like decent odds that she could get there without making herself too big of a target in the process. 

Head ducked and rifle cradled to her chest, Gwen ran, ignoring the sounds of gunfire around her. She didn’t know if any of it was aimed at her, but if it was, she wouldn’t improve the situation any by slowing down to check. 

Winded, Gwen arrived safely behind her new cover, panting heavily inside her enviro-suit. A quick check of her suit’s displays showed that her containment system was intact; she hadn’t sustained any damage worth worrying about. Satisfied that her own situation was under control, Gwen peeked out to check on the tech she had moved to cover. 

It turned out that she might as well have stayed in her original sniper perch. From this angle, she was able to easily locate the turian merc taking shots at her team’s tech from a low balcony. She could also clearly see another member of her team closing in behind him. Curious, Gwen decided to watch the scene play out over her scope. When she’d seen this guy at the briefing, she had been unreservedly skeptical. She’d never heard of someone going into combat with a pistol in each hand. That only happened in action films written by people who’d never held a gun in their lives. And yet there he’d been, a pistol sheathed at each hip, lounging with a confident smirk on his face as the mission plan was laid out. Gwen had expected him to be laughed out of the briefing, but everyone else took him at face value. So she had, too, not wanting to look like the clueless new girl. 

Instead of raising questions, she’d studied him through the meeting, trying to get his measure. She caught his name pretty easily – Zevran – but that was nearly meaningless. There was no way to tell if it was his real name or the sort of handle some mercs gave out to cover up their pasts. He was human, of course. No one else would have the audacity to try something so patently ridiculous as flashy dual-gun fighting. His hair was blond, at odds with his tanned skin. Given what little she knew of human genetic tendencies, Gwen assumed the hair color was an affectation, part of a carefully crafted appearance, along with the small braids worked into it and the curling tattoos on the side of his face. None of that had changed Gwen’s initial assumptions that he was more show than substance. 

Watching him now, she was starting to reevaluate that decision. She found herself impressed by the way he moved, graceful and fluid, almost like a dancer. In addition to being pretty to look at, his steps must have been nearly silent, given how close he had gotten to the turian without detection. Gwen acknowledged that his stealth skills were impressive, but what she really wanted to see was how he fought with that impractical pair of handguns. Currently, he was holding them at film-inspired angles designed to make a dramatic silhouette. It didn’t give Gwen any confidence about his ability to actually use them. 

Suddenly, when Zevran got within a few yards of his target, his entire posture changed. One of the guns came up to deliver a clean double-tap to the turian’s heart, while he swept the other in an arc at arm’s length to provide covering fire – something Gwen would have said couldn’t be done effectively with a pistol. The turian slumped to the ground without so much as a cry of distress, and Zevran dropped into a smooth forward roll to occupy the fallen merc’s former position. In spite of herself, Gwen was impressed.

The tech noticed the break in fire pretty quickly and darted to the console he’d been working at, picking back up on his hacking job. Gwen and Zevran were well positioned to provide cover for his work, picking off or distracting any targets that presented themselves. None of the Blue Suns gave the tech any further trouble, and the rest of the data acquisition proceeded smoothly. Within a few minutes, he packed up his omnitool and sent the signal across the com link that the job was done. 

Gwen held her position long enough to cover his retreat, then began looking for her own route out, hoping to avoid any close-range combat on the way. As she scanned the room, she caught sight of Zevran flipping dramatically over the balcony railing to land on the main floor of the room. His kinetic barrier crackled with ricochets, and he laughed mockingly while returning fire. Assuming that all enemy attention would be focused on that little show, Gwen took the opportunity to get out. 

She met up with the tech at the evac point, along with the burly krogan who had been single-handedly holding their exit route open. They exchanged nods of recognition, acknowledging each others’ survival and pointedly not mentioning those missing. That was a risk of the job, and they’d all known it coming in. 

“We’ve got what we came for.” The tech patted the pouch where he’d tucked away the OSD. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“Did you signal for retrieval?” Gwen asked the krogan. 

He shook his head. “Not yet. We’ll give it a minute. Zev will make it.” He gave a rumbling chuckle. “He just likes to make an exit.” 

Sure enough, not two minutes later, the blond human appeared, backing his way out and shooting at final pursuit. He took three final shots, then holstered his pistols with a dramatic flourish and turned to the rest of his squad. 

“Apologies for keeping you waiting.” His cocky grin undermined the apology. Gwen was struck by the way the curve of his lips echoed the tattoo lines curling up his cheekbone. “So many pressing engagements, you understand.” 

The krogan grunted noncommittally, but his jaw was dropped in a smirk of approval. The tech rolled his eyes and turned a cold shoulder, getting on the com to call in their evac shuttle. 

Any real response would have to come from Gwen, and after seeing Zevran in action, she was inclined to make a favorable impression and get on his good side. She was hoping to stay with this employer, so odds were good they’d be working together in the future. It wouldn’t hurt to have the people who might be covering her back predisposed in her favor. “Glad you could tear yourself away to join us.” 

“I fear I broke some hearts, but that is the price of beauty, no?” Zevran turned his smile on her, broadening it with a predatory glint in his eye. “Surely a lady so lovely as you must understand the risks.” 

Gwen had a flash of irritation that her faceplate limited her ability to quell unwanted advances with a withering glare. She had to make do with body language. Crossing her arms over her chest, she did her best to convey a closed, uninterested impression. 

Zevran put a hand to his heart as if wounded. “Beautiful but so cold. How is a man to resist?” 

Gwen turned her back, glad to hear the whoosh of the incoming shuttle and have a smooth way out of this conversation. Perhaps she wouldn’t look forward to working with Zevran again after all. 

 

After they reported back in to the boss, dropped off the data, and had a straightforward debrief, Gwen and her fellow mercs made their way to the closest bar. It was apparently a tradition of the group, celebrating success and toasting those left behind. The wrap-up drinking session was every bit as much a part of Gwen’s initiation into the organization as the mission. Politely declining wasn’t an option. 

The selected location was a dimly-lit, seedy sort of place, and Gwen suspected most of the other clientele were also guns for hire of one type or another. A quick scan of the place was enough to convince her that she shouldn’t trust anything purported to be sterilized, so she was forgoing the drinks. A quarian raised away from the Migrant Fleet had the choice of being – as Gwen’s mother put it – picky or sickly. Gwen had always opted for the former. 

Gwen was pleased to have gotten through the firefight – and even acquitted herself pretty well for the new girl in the merc group – but an hour into the evening she had a bigger problem to deal with. Namely, the volus sitting across from her. All she knew for certain about him was that he went by the name of Oghren. Everything else was speculation. 

They said he’d been one of the deadliest volus soldiers ever seen, a candidate for Spectre status. Until his wife had died. Or until he’d been near-blinded by the loss of one eye. Or until he’d started drinking. Maybe all three. 

They said he hung around mercenary circles because he’d founded a merc gang that had nearly taken over a large sector of the galaxy. They said his partner had sold him out. Or double-crossed him and left him for dead. Or had a crisis of conscience and left him holding the bag. They said he was looking for revenge. Or an opening to start over. Or a chance to atone for his sins. 

They said he’d made a fortune doing cutting edge work in heavy weapons R&D. But that had ended when his business partner was killed. Or when a prototype back-fired on the wrong client. Or when a rival weapons designer decided to take out the competition permanently. 

They said he was more machine than flesh under his containment suit, that he was barely alive in the traditional sense. They said his suit was a masterpiece of his own design, full of concealed weapons so that he was never helpless, no matter how thoroughly he’d been searched and disarmed. They said he hadn’t been seen sober in a decade. They said he’d taken down a krogan battlemaster single-handedly – with nothing but a flamethrower. 

They said far more than could possibly be true. But what they didn’t ever say was what to do when he sat down at your table and offered to buy you a drink. 

“Nothing for me. I don’t think this is a ‘dex and clean’ kind of place.” Gwen’s curiosity about the volus legend got the better of her. “That won’t stop me from talking while you have something, though.” 

“Gives me more time to drink.” Oghren chortled, a raspy wheezing sound through his respirator, and signaled for a refill of his currently half-empty drink. 

Gwen waited with growing confusion to find out what he wanted, but he seemed content to wait for his drink. By the time it arrived, he had finished the first one, handing the empty glass to the asari waitress. After making a start on the fresh drink, he finally picked up the conversation. 

“Heard you did a nice job out there today. Hell of a sniper.” 

Gwen was caught off guard. Was this a competing job offer, an attempt to hire an assassin, or something else entirely? Wary about where he was going, she hedged. “I’ve had some practice, but there are better.” 

Oghren made that wheezy laugh again. “We can’t all be Commander Shepard. I’d say you’re plenty good for a novice. With potential to do a lot better. I’d put credits on that.” 

He paused for a drink, and Gwen wondered about an appropriate response. She aimed for noncommittal with a touch of skepticism. “You’ve got a lot of faith in someone you’ve never seen work. It’s flattering, but I don’t know I’ve earned it.” 

“You will.” Another huffing wheeze of a laugh. “Especially with the edge I’m offering you.” 

Gwen relaxed. Here came the hook. She crossed her arms and leaned back expectantly. 

In response, the volus laid a weapon on the table. It was the type designed to fold up into something compact for easy transport. He flicked a switch, and it unfolded into a beautiful rifle, sleek and obviously cutting edge. “She’s all yours.” 

Gwen’s fingers itched to hold it, but she resisted. It was stupid to take an offer from a volus without seeing the fine print. “What’s the catch?” 

“No catch.” He sounded offended. “Thing is… she’s a prototype. Want you to test her for me.” 

Gwen remained skeptical. “Why can’t you test it yourself?” 

He laughed loudly at that, a long hissing cacophony that took a while to subside. “My buddies in the lab won’t let me test sniper rifles after the last time. Seems that ‘Great kickback. Used it to shatter a krogan’s jaw.’ isn’t the kind of feedback they’re looking for.” He shook his head with a mechanical sigh before taking another long drink. “That was a hell of a gun, though. Wish they’d let me keep her.” 

Gwen tried to get that image out of her head, focusing on the rifle sitting on the table in front of her. “If I test this for you – or your friends, whichever – what’s the rest of the deal? How do you know I won’t just run off with it?” 

“My buddies can find their toys, and I can find mercs. You couldn’t vanish. Not for long enough to do any good.” His hissing chuckle had a menacing edge, but his next words sounded jovial and casual. “No reason you should anyway. The deal’s simple. You use the gun on whatever jobs you want. When we cross paths, you tell me what you’ve been doing, how she’s worked, maybe a few other things I want to know.” Gwen got the feeling that if a volus could convey a broad, lurid wink from inside a suit, Oghren would have. His voice practically seethed with innuendo. 

It was the second time in a day that Gwen had been leered at by an alien, and it made her skin crawl like she wanted to scrub it, even inside her enviro-suit. She was wondering if this was a job hazard that came with being a merc. She really hoped not. This work was the best way she could think of to get the credits her clan needed to buy their way back into the Fleet, and she wouldn’t let anything deter her from doing it. But by the homeworld, she didn’t want to spend all of her time as an object of every puerile male fantasy a lonely merc could dream up! 

Oghren finished his drink and slammed the empty glass down on the table. “So… we have a deal?” 

Gwen tried to put the rest aside and focus on the business side of the arrangement. This gun was gorgeous, and it _would_ give her an edge. She needed this if she was going to build a reputation in the business and get the credits for her clan. “Deal.” She held out her hand to shake over the rifle. “I’ll test your new gun and report in on it when you ask.” 

Oghren took her hand. “Great to be working with you.” He waved down the waitress. “Another round to celebrate our new partnership!” 

Gwen really hoped she wasn’t going to regret this.


	4. The Salarian Spy

Nasum Dorado Aegohr Cal Amell Vardo – known to non-salarians as Vardo Amell – had always been an unusual member of his race. He was one of the incredibly rare salarians born with biotic ability. This resulted in certain expectations that he would use his talents for the benefit of the species, which he had no reason to dispute. Except that Vardo had no intention of becoming some sort of salarian super soldier. 

Having biotic powers did not automatically make him an asari commando or a krogan battlemaster. Nor did it give him any urge to get into violent confrontations with one. He was perfectly content to leave such heroics to the hot-heads who joined Special Tasks. In addition to his biotic gifts, Vardo was also particularly talented at mathematical reasoning. And some very simple calculations had easily convinced him that – in contrast to the hostile alien forces often encountered by STG squads – ledgers and credit chits were highly unlikely to shoot at him. 

So Vardo had become a forensic accountant. 

His work was still extremely valuable; there were multiple occasions where Special Tasks wouldn’t have known who they ought to be shooting at without the information in his reports, so he was clearly making a substantial contribution to the well-being of his people. And he was doing it via a method that involved a statistically reduced probability of sudden and violent death. 

His current project involved analyzing the financial transactions of the pro-human extremist group Cerberus. There were indications the organization had recently converted a large number of its assets into liquid form. Signs of increased Cerberus activity made other races understandably nervous, and the salarian government had tasked Vardo with investigating the intended purpose of the newly freed capital. 

It was hardly a surprise that this most recent game of “follow the credits” had led him to Ilium, the galaxy’s premier center for illegal but civilized mercantile activity. His first two day cycles on planet had been spent establishing his cover as a shrewd financial trader with flexible scruples. He’d arranged several deals to shift questionable commodities and investments between interested parties. Nothing relevant had come out of it, but he’d made several contacts he hoped would prove useful in future investigations. 

Having accomplished that, he was taking the evening off from business dealings and spending it in a small lounge enjoying a musical performance. The singer was an asari, probably somewhere in her maiden phase. Her name was Leliana, and the audience was not nearly as large as it ought to have been, given her level of talent. Vardo had seen her perform previously in front of far more impressive crowds than this. He assumed that the difference was a result of the location; she would logically draw a better audience in non-asari space where she would be viewed as an exotic novelty. Here on Ilium, an asari performer was a more common commodity and thus less readily marketable. None of which in any way diminished her ability, of course. Vardo found her performance every bit as skilled and appealing as it had been in a larger venue, perhaps even captivating as a result of the intimate setting facilitating her natural rapport with the audience. 

When Leliana paused for a break after her second set, Vardo joined the small crowd of people waiting to speak with her. He deliberately lingered near the back of the group, waiting as the other fans bought copies of her music and asked for autographs. 

Vardo watched her with her fans, remembering why she had caught his attention when he first saw her perform a few years ago. Leliana was warm and open, greeting everyone with a ready smile and a soft laugh that suggested openness. Her stage persona was intimate, creating personal connections without ever truly giving away anything about herself. It was a masterful performance, and he recognized the skill involved immediately. Her music was enjoyable, also, a mixture of traditional and new songs collected from regions scattered across the galaxy and arranged well to suit her voice. Listening to her performances, unlike many of the things he was called on to do in his professional capacity, was never a hardship. 

Leliana caught his eye and smiled as she chatted with the pair of patrons in front of him. When they left, she turned her full attention to him. “Vardo! It is lovely to see you, as always. How long has it been?” She didn’t pause for him to respond. “Too long. I’m glad you’re here.” 

She prattled cheerily, as if their meeting was an unexpected and pleasant coincidence rather than the result of several coded messages and the primary reason she was currently on Ilium. 

“I’m pleased I had the opportunity to hear you sing again. Some of the material was new since last time, wasn’t it?” 

“Of course! Even the best performer stagnates when lacking variety, and her art becomes stale as a result. I will get bored and dull if I do not keep challenging myself.” She smiled, the warm smile that suggested she was taking you into her confidence, revealing a secret. “That’s why I chose to become a musician in the first place. I thrive on the creative stimulation.” 

Vardo returned her smile and made an appropriate response, wondering if that might actually be true. It would be rather unexpected for an asari commando to give up the mercenary lifestyle because it bored her, but he could actually believe that of Leliana. He had never seen her fight, but she always looked so vibrant and present when singing that he could well imagine she had found any other lifestyle unsatisfying. Of course, no longer wearing the uniform didn’t mean she had given up all of the contacts and skills from her old life. And her new career gave her complete freedom to travel wherever she wanted with little scrutiny. It made her an ideal information source, one Vardo rarely hesitated to take advantage of when his work was in an area where she would be useful. 

“I don’t even need to ask what you want, of course.” Leliana pulled an OSD out of her bag. A careful observer, such as a trained salarian spy, would notice that it came from a separate pouch than the music recordings she had been selling earlier. “You’re always wanting to have what is new since you saw me last.” 

“That is quite true. I enjoy variety as well.” Vardo took the OSD and handed her a credit chip. It was for a significantly larger amount than could possibly be reasonable for musical recordings, but no one was close enough to see, and he kept it shielded by his fingers out of habit just in case. 

Leliana tucked the chip quickly away without appearing especially hurried. “It was a pleasure to see you, Vardo, as always. I do not wish to be rude, but I am afraid I can’t linger. It is time for me to begin again, and it would be wrong to deprive my audience, such as it is.” 

“As part of said audience, I completely understand. I wish you continued success until we meet again.” Vardo sketched something between a nod and a bow, earning what he thought might actually be a sincere smile, a rare occurrence from such a consummate performer. 

Having achieved his primary goal for the evening, Vardo tucked away the OSD into a hidden inner pocket and settled back into his chair to enjoy the rest of the night’s music. 

 

Vardo waited until the next morning to look through the files he had received from Leliana. Strictly speaking, “morning” might not have been the appropriate term. It would probably be better to describe it as the point in time at which his body had decided it was prepared to begin functioning for the day. Vardo had decided years ago that it was far more efficient to simply refer to that point as morning, regardless of when it occurred temporally. He often thought one of the biggest advantages of the amount of interplanetary travel involved in his job was that he always had a ready excuse for being out of sync with local time. 

As the files came up on his screen, he began methodically sorting through the masses of financial data Leliana had provided. Vardo had no idea how she got her information, and he often suspected that he would prefer to remain ignorant on that topic. He spent the next several hours scrolling through invoices, financial transaction records, and shipping manifests, all the while making careful notations about anything that stood out as particularly unusual or interesting. 

By the end of his subjective morning, a pattern had definitely started to emerge. Perhaps two separate patterns. 

He would need to consult with some experts in specific technical areas to confirm his assumptions about the purpose of the individual items being purchased. But all signs pointed to Cerberus investing extremely heavily in physical supplies required for both cutting-edge ship design and beyond-the-cutting-edge medical technology. Several of their suppliers, particularly for the starship parts, were turian companies. That, combined with the amount of capital that was being invested into this endeavor, convinced him that this project – or these projects, as he had no evidence other than timing that the two were related – was not being undertaken lightly. 

Vardo had no idea what to make of this information, but that wasn’t his job. His responsibility was to find the patterns and pass them on to his superiors. They had the unenviable task of figuring out precisely what Cerberus was doing with this equipment and if there was anyone Special Tasks ought to be sent to shoot or sabotage as a result. He was entirely content to leave that to them. His part in this situation was well and truly completed.


	5. The Biotic Extremist

“I’ve found us a target.”

Natia Brosca sighed with relief at her lieutenant’s pronouncement and let her datapad plop down onto her desk. The files she’d been reading through for the past two hours were a mixture of tedious and nauseating, and she welcomed the interruption. The promise of impending action was even more welcome. “What’ve you got?” 

She looked up as Anders dropped into his usual chair, all lanky grace and restrained energy. “Batarian slavers.” 

Natia waved her hand in a “get on with it” motion, waiting for him to say something relevant. 

“They take children.” 

Natia rolled her eyes, reaching for her datapad. “Them and everyone else. Young means malleable and profitable. It sucks for the kids, but that isn’t our problem. Dammit, Anders, we can’t stop every injustice in the God-damned galaxy.” She thumbed her pad back on to start reading the next file. “Get the hell out of here and quit wasting my time.” 

“Biotic children,” Anders clarified. “Natia, they take requests!” He keyed a sequence into his omnitool, fingers jabbing violently, and a new window popped up on Natia’s datapad, superseding the file she’d been reading. 

It looked almost like a classified ad or a list of technical specs for bespoke ship design. But the content was far more sinister. Natia’s lip curled into a snarl as she read. It was a request for a young biotic. Untrained but with a high power projection. Female only, species irrelevant. Natia looked up when she finished, staring intently at Anders. “Screw the slavers. I want the buyer.” 

He shook his head, having already anticipated her request. “They covered their tracks. All I could find was a shell corporation. Asha Bellanar, registered out of Illium. Could be asari, but who the hell knows with that place?” He slammed a hand down on her desk, leaning forward. “That’s why we go after the slavers. Disrupt the supply and get their client list. This Asha Bellanar and every other sick bastard that’s buying biotic children as pets and lab rats.” 

Natia considered it, staring at the ad still floating on her datapad, the implications burning into her mind. After a long moment, she slapped the datapad down on her desk and met Anders’s level gaze. “Do it. This needs to stop. Set up the details and make this happen.” 

Anders replied with an eager grin, anticipation glinting in his eyes. “Gladly.” 

 

Three days later, Natia watched with satisfaction as her squad wiped out the last few batarian slavers and took the leader captive. The attack went even more smoothly than she had expected. 

A large part of their success was due to her group’s tactics and skill set. Other than the occasional asari, no one was really prepared to face a group of biotics using their powers to full advantage. Natia rarely bothered to plan her strikes using conventional military approaches. What was the point of cover when every member of her squad was surrounded by both a kinetic barrier and a biotic shield? Why spend time flanking the enemy’s position when they were going to unleash so many shockwaves and lifts that everyone’s original locations would become irrelevant within seconds? And who cared about marksmanship when she could crush the life out of someone with her mind? Hell, the only reason most of Natia’s team carried guns at all was to keep up their scores in “skeet”, a game that had blossomed out of one of her earthborn recruit’s habit of yelling “Pull!” every time he lifted an opponent to tumble freely through the air. 

If Natia had learned one thing on Presrop, it was how much a group of organized, committed biotics could do when given the chance. The Alliance had disrupted things there, but she intended to pass the lessons on to the entire rest of the galaxy. Terminally, when necessary. 

Even taking her group’s tactics and planning into account, Natia was pleasantly surprised at how well this particular assault had gone. The slaver ring had been tougher than any of the earlier targets she’d authorized her group to hit, and her people were coming out of it with only minor injuries. Most of that difference was Anders. 

He was by far the most talented biotic she’d ever fought alongside, the strongest human biotic she’d ever met. Whether that was a result of his BAaT training or simply the raw power level that had brought him to the program’s attention in the first place, she couldn’t speculate. And ultimately, it didn’t matter. Anders worked for her now, and it always gave Natia a thrill to watch his biotic energy flash across the battlefield, almost electric in its intensity. With his input, the fight had been fast and brutal, just the way Natia liked it. 

They had taken the group’s leader entirely by surprise, capturing him easily. Natia had held him immobilized to watch as her people finished off the rest of his group. After that, she’d kept him pinned while she persuaded him that it would be in his best interest to give her access to all of his group’s records. 

By the time the batarian slaver relented and gave her the information she needed, two of his eyes were swollen shut from a biotic-enhanced slap to the side of the face, and bruises were blooming elsewhere on his stasis-restrained body. His limbs were still bound to the wall with bands of kinetic force, and Natia kept the pressure just tight enough to hurt, reminding him who was in charge. 

Most people in her position would have delegated this sort of interrogation, but Natia preferred to do the work herself. There was something viscerally satisfying about using her talents to inflict damage on people who deserved it. Natia also believed there was an extra degree of humiliation for the scum they took down in being beaten up by a petite human woman using only the force of her mind. It was a potent reminder of just how powerless they were in the face of biotics like those they had marginalized and abused. 

Those were the answers Natia would give if anyone ever questioned her. But that wasn’t the whole truth. She ran a finger meditatively over her cheek, feeling the familiar rough numbness of scar tissue. The real reason was that she had sworn long ago that no one would ever again make her feel helpless. 

Growing up in a small human enclave on an asari world, Natia had never known life as anything but a second-class citizen. When she’d begun developing biotic powers, she’d had a fleeting thought that might change. But it had only made things worse. She quickly discovered that human biotics were of no interest to the asari higher-ups. They had sufficient talent among long-lived members of their own species that it wasn’t worth their time to train humans who couldn’t live long enough to achieve the expected levels of mastery. Among the members of her own species, Natia’s biotic gifts were seen as evidence of betrayal, siding with the asari overlords and turning her back on her fellow humans. 

She’d learned the extent of their hatred at age sixteen. A group of local toughs had cornered her in a dark alley and called her a traitor to their race. They had held her down while carving an asari symbol for biotics into her face, so that no one would ever forget she was an unnatural freak. Then they had beaten her nearly to death. Natia had screamed like the scared little girl she was, trusting that someone would save her. As the endless minutes of agony ticked on, Natia accepted that despite the crowded streets nearby, no one would come. She’d been found hours later and taken for medical treatment by a complete stranger, but it was hard to feel gratitude for that half-hearted compassion she could only see as too little too late. 

Later, when she’d heard about a haven for biotics on Presrop, Natia had stolen enough credits to cover transportation and hitched a shuttle without a second thought. There was no reason for her to stay. Her mother was a drunk who rarely noticed her daughter’s presence at the best of times, and her sister’s attempts at social climbing would only be improved by her absence. 

It was on Presrop that Natia had learned what family really meant. Father Kyle had been good to them, had cared for all of the biotics that sought refuge in the safe community he established. He helped them learn how to use their powers, but more importantly he taught them not to be ashamed of what they were. He taught them they had the right to be accepted, valued, loved. Those were the happiest times of Natia’s life. 

Then the Alliance had taken it away. Father Kyle had been arrested, and they had been evicted from their home. As they were being forced out, Natia had gathered a few of the others, the ones most willing to fight for the respect and freedoms they deserved, and formed the core of her current group. Presrop had opened her eyes to what life could be, what it _should_ be, and she would be damned if she’d accept anything less. Natia was not going back to an existence where she tried to hide what she was for fear that the ignorant would punish her for it. And she would take down anyone and anything that stood in her way. Even the whole Alliance, if she had to. Biotic freedom was worth it. 

Suddenly, Anders exploded, shocking Natia out of her reverie. Blue energy crackled around his hands and eyes as he lunged towards the batarian slaver Natia’s will held pinned. Anders’s hand clenched around the alien’s throat, and the blue glow around his eyes pulsed in time with his words. “Where’s the rest of it?”

Anders waved a datapad in front of the batarian’s two good eyes, but Natia doubted the slaver could make out any details. 

Not waiting for an answer, Anders continued, pressing harder. “I asked for _all_ of your client records. Where are the rest? Don’t try to hide them from me.” 

The batarian began choking, gasping for air. Anders loosened his grip long enough for him to gasp out a denial. 

“Wrong answer.” A wave of biotic energy rushed from Anders, slamming his captive against the wall so hard his teeth rattled. “Protecting them isn’t worth what we can do to you.” 

“All there,” the batarian gasped, trying to shake his head. “Gave you everything.” 

“Don’t lie to me!” The energy crackling off Anders was almost palpable, and Natia shivered at the thought of power he was putting off. “Biggest supplier of biotic children in the Verge, and you expect me to believe you never sold to BAaT or Ascension?” 

“Never.” The slaver tried to shake his head in denial. “Alliance programs taking human children from Alliance space. They didn’t need us.” 

Anders stared into his captive’s eyes for a long moment, evaluating his sincerity as the slaver continued to choke for air. Then with a harsh sob of breath, Anders released his biotic hold, allowing the alien to slide to the floor, gasping desperately and clutching at his bruised throat. Still wreathed in biotic energy and barely suppressed rage, Anders turned his back and strode from the room. 

Watching, Natia smiled grimly. Anders was another step closer to accepting who their enemy ultimately was. The batarian had unwittingly done her a favor. Maybe he deserved to live after all. 

Then she remembered the classified ad that had brought them on this raid, the standing order for talented young biotic girls. On second thought, maybe not. 

Natia’s hand clenched into a fist, and kinetic energy began to gather around it as she took a step towards her prisoner. 

 

When Natia returned to the shuttle, no one commented on the dark stains on her armor and boots. The crew had everything ready to lift off, and within a matter of minutes the ship was on its way back to the group’s current base of operations. That was her team’s standard procedure after hitting a target: get out before the sharks started nosing around the carcass, and Natia was proud to see they’d arranged it without any specific orders from her. Her crew was learning. 

Natia waved for them to carry on and headed to her quarters to clean up. She’d never been squeamish about the process of getting covered in someone else’s blood, but she hated sitting in it afterwards. She changed into fresh clothes and started the familiar process of cleaning gore off of her armor. Repetition had made it almost meditative, and her mind wandered as her hands worked. 

Anders had been conspicuously absent during take off, probably engaged in his own version of coming back down to base state from combat high. Natia had known he was powerful, but she’d never expected anything quite so explosive. The energy radiating off him when he’d thrown that slaver against the wall had been electric, magnetic, and Natia suppressed a shiver just at the memory of it. Anders was everything she’d hoped for and more. _That’s why they’re afraid of us. And they should be._

But now that she knew he was capable of that kind of display, she needed to know when to expect it. Having the biotic next to you go crazy and lash out was pretty much typical, given the hell most of them had been put through, but Natia had to know what triggered it so she knew it was coming. She had to know her crew, strengths and flaws, and Anders had better not try to hold back from her. She’d seen behind the mask, and a glimpse wasn’t going to be enough. 

About an hour into the trip, Anders showed up in her room – thankfully before Natia had to go looking for him. 

“I need to apologize for how I acted back there.” His eyes looked slightly haunted, flicking around as if he was searching the room for an escape route. 

Natia frowned and waved him in. She held her tongue, giving him one chance to explain. 

“It was inappropriate. I over-reacted. I just had such hopes…” Anders sighed as he dropped into the offered seat across from her. “I should have been more honest with you about why I pushed so hard for this target.” 

“Yes, you should have.” Natia had never been very good at biting her tongue until other people were done talking, and Anders hadn’t earned much patience. “We’re a team, Anders. We have to trust each other. If you can’t be honest with me, how can we work together? How can we help our people if we don’t have faith in ourselves?” 

“You’re right. Of course you’re right.” Anders glanced away for a moment before facing her openly. She leaned forward, holding his eyes and refusing to let him look away again. “When I found an angle on these slavers, I thought we’d find records that tied them to BAaT, to Ascension. Something concrete, evidence that the authorities couldn’t ignore. Something to force justice for Karl, for Kaidan. For every child they’ve ripped away from family, turned into a weapon, and then deemed expendable.” Anders’s eyes were starting to flash blue as his voice rose in intensity. 

Natia felt a surge of panic even as part of her wanted to smile in satisfaction. There was the trigger: childhood trauma. She could relate. 

She leaned forward to take his hand, grounding him, holding him to the present so he couldn’t get lost in his past. “They took away your life. Of course you hate them. I get that. Ask any of us from Presrop about the late sainted Commander Shepard.” She spat the name out, lips twisting into a snarl at the memory of the man who had taken away her first chance at a real home. 

Like a switch had been flipped, the blue energy was gone, and Anders’s eyes turned warm with concern. He squeezed her hand and tried to speak, but Natia shook her head. This wasn’t about her. She redirected him away from her pain and back to his own. “Be as angry at them as you need to be. Find us targets who deserve it. But don’t lie to me, and don’t try to hide what you feel. I need to be able to rely on you. On all of the group, but especially you.” 

She gripped his hand tightly for emphasis, watching his eyes while blue swirled around the amber as his momentary control was gone. Dammit! He wasn’t hearing her; she was losing her hold. No, they had come too far for her to give in to this now. Desperate, she pushed to get through the past trauma, to hold onto a bond that would keep him present. “Anders, we all have scars, things that were done to us for being what we are. They don’t have to make you weak unless you let them. The only stupid thing is pretending that getting them didn’t hurt.” 

After she finished, Anders stared at her, statue-still, and Natia tensed, waiting for a reaction. Her heart was pounding as she struggled to contain the memories and emotion, and she didn’t know how he could be so calm right now. She kept her eyes locked to his, giving him a connection, hoping she could help him regain control, even if it was by showing him he wasn’t the only one losing it. For long minutes, he didn’t move. Then suddenly he surged towards her, his hand cupping the side of her face as his mouth crashed into hers. 

Natia’s thoughts froze in shock – of all his possible reactions, she’d never expected this one – but her body responded, succumbing readily to his passion and enthusiasm. Her arms came up to hold him closer, and she dove eagerly into the sensations of lips and tongue. She couldn’t recall anyone kissing her with such single-mindedness before, but it fit him, the way he threw himself into whatever he was doing at the moment – whether it be arguing for biotic rights, smiting those he considered oppressors, or, apparently, thoroughly kissing the woman he worked for. 

When Anders finally pulled away, it was only far enough to breathe, resting his forehead against hers. “No one’s ever said something like…” He tilted his head away slightly, giving her a glimpse of a lopsided smile. “I’m not exactly used to feeling accepted.” 

Natia felt a rush of relief at the sight of his warm amber eyes, clear and coherent. At least for now, she hadn’t lost him to his demons. She ran her thumb over the edge of that smile and across his cheek. “That’s all any of us wants: a home.” 

“I think I may have finally found one.” 

As Anders leaned into her touch, Natia wondered if he was talking about the biotic resistance group or her specifically. Either way, it would be good for the cause.


	6. The Pilgrim Explorer

As his ship slowed down from FTL speed, Theron Mahariel was alerted by the soft ping that meant he had received an incoming message. Immediately, he keyed in the sequence to retrieve it, trusting the ship’s sophisticated VI to handle the navigation required to bring him in to his destination system. This ship was really too large to be run by a single person; he hadn’t intended to be making this voyage alone, when he first started planning it. But this was how things had turned out, and there was nothing Theron could do to change it. He trusted his VI to pick up the slack when he couldn’t cover everything personally. She had yet to let him down. 

The message queue came up on Theron’s personal display, indicated that, as expected, the call that had come in while he was in FTL travel was a vid recording from Tamlen. With a mixture of anticipation and trepidation, Theron started it playing. 

Immediately, as the image resolved from static, he paused it to study his friend’s face, comparing it to his memories of the last message he’d received. Images of Tamlen’s face flickered in his mind’s eye: the boy he’d played with on Kahje, the earnest young man planning this grand quest to save their people, the patient growing progressively more ill as his body shut down, betraying all of their hopes and dreams. 

Compared to the most recent memories, Tamlen didn’t look much changed. The pale greyish tinge to his scaled skin, while still present, was no more pronounced. His dark eyes were clear rather than clouded with pain or dulled by medication. For a moment, Theron entertained a wild hope that the hanar scientists had succeeded in finding a treatment that would delay the progression of Kepral’s. He shook his head at his own foolishness. Tamlen simply hadn’t developed any further visible signs of his disease in the weeks since his last communication. That was enough to be thankful for. There was no sense in poisoning life’s small blessings by wishing for the impossible. 

Theron took a deep calming breath before pressing the button to let the message resume playing. Tamlen’s voice filled the small cockpit, cheerful and welcome, if a bit thinner than when they were younger. 

“Greetings, Theron! I can’t even imagine where you’re located by now. Wherever you are, I hope you’re doing well. Out there, searching the stars, seeing new worlds every day. By Amonkira, I wish I could be there with you!” 

Theron smiled at his friend’s enthusiasm, undamped by his depressing circumstances. Theron wasn’t sure if he would be so brave should their positions be reversed. 

Tamlen continued on for several minutes, giving news of home, helping Theron feel connected to his people, despite the vast gulf of space that separated them. The feed flickered a couple of times, the product of Tamlen freezing the recording and picking up later. Given how winded and hoarse Tamlen was after each interruption, Theron assumed he was avoiding capturing prolonged and painful coughing spasms on video. Theron was grateful for the self-censoring. Even if it didn’t serve to hide the progression of his friend’s illness, he appreciated not having the sight fixed in his memory. He already had enough images of his failure to haunt him during dark nights alone in the void. 

Deliberately grounding himself in the present moment, Theron focused on the remainder of Tamlen’s message. “But that’s enough of news on Kahje. I’m sure wherever you are and whatever you’re doing is far more exciting than sitting here watching the waves come in. 

“When you have time, I’d love to hear about all of it, join you vicariously since I couldn’t do it for real. Keep enjoying the grand adventure, Theron. And remember you’re out there for all of us back here.” 

The message flickered to a stop, and Theron pressed the button to save it, an unnecessary bit of sentimentality. The entirety of the message, every word and gesture, was already fixed in his memory; he would never need to replay it. But having the list was important, a tangible reminder of the stakes of his mission. No matter how Tamlen characterized it, this wasn’t an adventure. It was a quest. One with dire consequences for the entire drell race. Theron could never let himself forget what was at stake. 

So he didn’t have time to wallow, especially not while he was on approach to an uncharted system. Every new system held the possibility of finding an uninhabited planet that could sustain life, a new homeworld for the drell. There was always the hope that this time Theron would finally be able to reply with a message of success, a chance for his people to have a future, rather than a dismal report with the coordinates of another failure and the meager fortune of finder’s fees for any mineral deposits he had discovered. He had to believe that the perfect planet was out there – that each planet he approached might be the one – or else he would succumb completely to the dark memories that haunted the edges of his consciousness. 

“Merrill?” 

The interface for the ship’s VI flickered to life in the cockpit, a realistic, if translucent, drell woman hovering a few inches off the floor. “News from home?” Her voice was slightly high-pitched but largely free of the synthetic tone common to most VIs Theron had encountered. A lot of time and credit had been put into Merrill’s programming when Tamlen’s illness progressed to the point that it became apparent that she would be Theron’s only company on his voyage. 

In addition to a relatively natural appearance and voice, she had been given some of the most sophisticated interactive protocols available for a VI. When Theron didn’t respond to her initial question, she continued speaking rather than waiting patiently for new input. “I saw you received a message from Tamlen, so I thought he might have passed on something about your friends on Kahje.” 

While Theron appreciated the subroutines that ensured Merrill would distract him from getting too lost in his own thoughts, there were times he wished she could do it without babbling quite so much. Still, she was superb at her designated tasks – navigation, scanning, and keeping him sane – and there was no way he’d be able to run the ship solo without her assistance. 

Aware that Merrill was still waiting for an answer – and was programmed to continue nagging until she got one – Theron struggled to calm his thoughts. “Yes, Tamlen shared news from home. He’s…” 

Theron wanted to say “doing well”, but the words wouldn’t form. He couldn’t bring himself to lie so blatantly, even if it was only to a VI. 

He cleared his throat and pressed on. “Tamlen’s eager to hear some good news. What’s the likelihood we can give him some soon?” 

“Pretty good,” Merrill chirped with an excellent facsimile of a smile. “My scans suggest the fourth planet in the Korcari system could be habitable, and I’m detecting none of the EM signatures that would indicate advanced civilization.” 

“Worth checking out.” Theron nodded. “Bring us in.” 

 

As the ship touched down on the planet’s system, Theron fastened on his breather mask. As much as he would have loved to inhale the planet’s fresh air directly after the stale, recycled air on the ship, it would be a foolish risk to take. Preliminary readings didn’t detect any obvious toxins, but that didn’t necessarily mean it was safe to breathe unprotected, especially for the fragile lungs of a drell, already weakened by prolonged exposure to the humid climate of Kahje. 

Mask firmly in place, Theron opened the hatch and took his first steps out onto the new world. His hopes weren’t terribly high. Once they’d broken into the atmosphere and he’d gotten a good look at the vast expanse of jungle covering most of the planet, Theron’s heart had sunk. The steamy air that clung to every patch of exposed skin confirmed his initial suspicions. The humidity here was at least as high as Kahje. Kepral’s syndrome wouldn’t even be slowed down by the change. 

Still, he dutifully took readings and samples, analyzing the soil, water, and vegetation. It was possible the moist climate was a localized phenomenon and that more arid regions existed elsewhere on the planet. When he was done collecting data, he would fly sweeps at various latitudes and longitudes looking for evidence of a desert suitable for drell colonization. It was something of a long shot, but so was this entire search. If he studied enough planets, eventually he had to find something. Otherwise, it had all been for nothing, and Theron refused to accept that possibility. 

The dense foliage blocked lines of sight, reducing visibility to almost nothing. Despite being habituated to limited space shipboard, Theron was accustomed to more open vistas when he was planetside. Being closed in like this made him uncomfortable, jumpy. He kept peering around, head swiveling at every unfamiliar noise. Trying to calm himself, he took deep breaths, each one hissing through his respirator mask. 

Theron crouched to gather a sample from the ground at the base of a particularly large tree, analyzing the soil’s chemical properties with his omni-tool. The results were unexpected, showing higher levels of complex synthetic chemicals than he would have expected for a pristine sylvan environment. Frowning beneath his mask, Theron repeated the scans, hoping his device wasn’t starting to malfunction. The readings came out the same the second time. He was trying to decide if that was a positive sign or not when he looked up and saw the krogan. 

It was standing just across the small clearing beneath the tree, having taken advantage of Theron’s preoccupation to approach far closer than the drell was comfortable with. The large, wicked-looking shotgun cradled in the krogan’s arms didn’t improve the situation any. It wasn’t pointed anywhere in particular at the moment, but that could change quickly, and Theron didn’t like the appraising look in the krogan’s small, dark eyes. 

In one fluid motion, Theron rose to his feet and drew his own weapon, a simple pistol. It felt paltry in comparison to the krogan’s heavy gun, but at such a close range a well-placed shot could do significant damage. Still, he wasn’t eager to test it against the krogan’s armor and thick hide. 

The krogan seemed unimpressed, looking contemptuously at Theron’s pistol. “That is not a wise decision.” His voice was deep and rumbling. 

“Simply a precaution.” Theron attempted to look confident without appearing overtly threatening. 

“It is unnecessary.” The krogan smiled grimly. “And insufficient.” 

Theron shrugged, keeping his shoulders loose and posture relaxed despite the tension thrumming through him. “I’ve learned to work with what I have at hand.” 

“If you care to put that to the test, I would gladly assist your efforts.” The krogan raised his shotgun, holding it less casually, a clear threat.   
Theron gripped his pistol tighter, weighing the relative merits of attempting to defuse the situation versus getting in the first shot. Before he could reach a decision, a third party intervened. 

“Sten, this was not what we discussed.” The voice was female and close. Theron risked a glance away from the krogan. The speaker was human, although her revealing garments were clearly of asari design. She was not visibly armed, but nothing about her posture suggested fear or vulnerability. 

“Plans can be altered to match circumstances.” The krogan’s shotgun barrel didn’t waver. 

“Mahariel, despite how it may seem, we do not wish to harm you.” 

Theron started at this unfamiliar woman’s use of his name, but he shook off his confusion quickly. It wouldn’t matter what she did or didn’t know about him if her partner started shooting. “You’d be a lot more convincing if he put his gun away.” 

“You first,” the krogan – Sten, she had called him – sneered. 

Theron stared back, waiting to see who would flinch first and set off the chaos. 

“Foolishness.” The woman sighed. “Enough of this! ’Tis a waste of time.” 

Suddenly, Theron felt his gun being pulled inexorably upwards, taken from his grip. His panic at being disarmed was slightly lessened by the blue nimbus surrounding the krogan’s weapon and lifting it also. A quick look confirmed his suspicion that the woman was responsible, a subtle glow of biotic energy emanating from her hands. 

Once both Theron’s pistol and Sten’s shotgun had floated over to land gracefully at her feet, the woman spoke again. “Might we have a conversation now that I have removed the distractions?” 

“We were talking.” It was difficult to read nuance in Sten’s rumbling voice, but Theron thought there might have been an edge of humor to that statement. The krogan’s face was impassive, however, so he couldn’t be sure. 

The woman ignored the interruption. “I am called Morrigan. My companion is known as Sten. We sought you out to discuss a business proposition.” 

Now that the guns were out of the equation, Theron was able to focus his thoughts on something beyond calculating his immediate odds of survival. This woman, Morrigan, had known his name, and now she claimed to have been looking for him specifically. There were only two possible ways she could have gotten the information. Tamlen and a handful of other old friends on Kahje were kept updated on his progress – more often by Merrill than by Theron himself because she could deliver bad news without feeling guilty or ashamed. But he doubted any of them would have given such sensitive information to a stranger. Also, if Morrigan was in contact with any of his friends, she should have started dropping names by now to put him at ease. 

The other option was the more likely one, and Theron couldn’t believe he hadn’t realized the possibility sooner. He was partially funding his expedition by selling data on the planets he explored to an information broker. Belatedly, he realized that he was inadvertently providing risky personal information along with it. Morrigan must be one of the broker’s customers; he hoped she had paid well to invade his privacy like this. 

Theron cross his arms and tilted his head at Morrigan in a gesture humans would typically interpret as casual arrogance. “Why would I be interested in doing favors for people who threaten me?” 

“I said nothing of a favor.” Morrigan’s gave a dismissive sniff. “I wish to discuss a mutually beneficial arrangement. ‘Twould be in your interest to hear me out.” 

“I’m listening.” 

“Sten and I are in need of transportation. Due to unfortunate circumstances, we cannot leave the planet according to our original plan.” 

“The traitorous cowards betrayed their word and left us stranded.” Sten’s teeth showed in a furious snarl that convinced Theron what he’d seen earlier had been mild annoyance at best. 

“I’m not running a shuttle service.” Theron shook his head. “I have my own plans, and they don’t include detours to drop off passengers.” 

Morrigan raised a hand to forestall him. “We could assist you with those plans. You seek a planet fit for colonization. I can provide you with a list of habitable worlds. Would that not speed your search?” 

“Not if they’re already occupied.” Theron shrugged, unimpressed by her offer. The humid, clammy air clinging to his skin made him edgy and disinclined to be charitable. “Anywhere listed in the databases as habitable has already been claimed unless there’s a damned good reason no one wants it. I’m not looking for a turf war or galactic cast-offs.” 

“There are other databases. I am offering worlds that are habitable but uncharted.” Morrigan sounded disdainful, almost bored. Despite her human blood, it was the universal tone of an asari exhibiting patience with the narrow understanding of a short-lived race. Theron bristled under her condescension. 

Possibly sensing his growing resistance, Sten interrupted. “We seek Prothean artifacts.” 

Morrigan’s lips pursed in distaste. Perhaps she hadn’t intended to reveal that information yet, but she didn’t bother to deny it. “I have records of Prothean colonies that have not been explored in the modern era. These worlds supported life fifty thousand years ago. Is that not better than searching at random?” 

Theron had been poised to leave, abandoning his pistol if he had to, but this changed things. He settled his weight back on his heels. “What would you expect in return?” 

“Transportation.” Morrigan’s posture relaxed as she laid out her offer. “We wish to travel to these worlds also. For our own reasons. While you take biome readings and test environmental factors, Sten and I shall gather artifacts and data from the ancient sites. You need not be involved. Simply give us time to find what we need.” 

“What sort of time are we discussing? I’m not going to wait around while you carry out a full archeological dig.” 

Morrigan waved a hand dismissively. “We can agree upon a reasonable length of time to spend on each planet. All that matters is that you inform us should your patience run out.” 

“Instead of leaving us stranded like our last ‘business partners’ did.” Sten’s voice was laden with contempt. 

Morrigan’s face grew dark. “Indeed. ‘Tis why we sought someone driven by purpose rather than profit.” 

“All the credits in the galaxy wouldn’t be enough to sell out your people’s future.” Sten clenched his fists, armor creaking with the strain. 

Theron gave a simple nod of agreement. The krogan clearly understood his position. That sense of kinship, as much as Morrigan’s logical arguments, made his decision. 

“You have a deal.” Theron pulled up his omnitool and knelt to gather a final soil sample. “Give back my pistol, let me finish this analysis, and we’ll discuss the details back on my ship.”


End file.
